A week had passed since Rett had given me thousands of stars. I never knew where we’d be when the blindfold was removed. Since the night in the courtyard, we’d dined in a stately dining room with a table that was set to seat twelve and could be extended to seat over twenty. Another night our meal was in a glass bubble, more accurately, a conservatory.
The conservatory took my breath away.
The nearly round room was completely made of windows. Even the ceiling was glass. While I wasn’t sure where exactly we were in New Orleans, I was surprised that no other homes were visible. Beyond the room of windows was green lawn and tall flowering hedges. It succeeded in the illusion of isolation.
Truly, that wasn’t an illusion any longer.
I was completely isolated.
I longed for connectivity to the world beyond these walls.
Whenever I mentioned my phone or internet, I was reminded to have patience and given the promise ofsoon. Patience was wearing thin and soon was never within reach. My only contacts were Ian, Rett, and occasionally, Miss Guidry.
With no internet, television, newspapers, or magazines, I had no knowledge of anything occurring outside of this suite or our dining location.
While I longed for some connection, physically I lacked for nothing. Anything I mentioned—be it yogurt for the small refrigerator or another throw for the reading lounge chair—it appeared within hours. Physically, my needs were met. It was emotionally that I was taking a hit.
With the one-week anniversary of my meeting Everett Ramses at hand, I finally understood what he’d said to me about power. He had it. I could dress up and appear his equal. We could converse about the editing program Ross and I created, or my life in Pittsburgh, or about Rett’s family history and about the Boudreaux. I could choose to have dessert while he had none, and through it all, he had control.
In many ways the situation was similar to the first night with his fingers gripping my neck. Only now, it wasn’t my throat and larynx he threatened; it was my emotional well-being. Rett said he wanted me to be his wife, but instead, he’d made me a dress-up doll kept locked away in a box that only Everett Ramses could open.
I battled with the idea that I was simply his distraction.
Would I be brought out for a few hours or left to gather dust?
In my unnerving situation, I hadn’t realized the precarious position of my mental status or lack thereof until the sixth night, until last night.
Six o’clock came and I closed the book I’d been reading.
This one was a mystery set on the islands off the west coast of Florida. There were names of islands, towns, and even restaurants that I recalled from my childhood when the O’Briens would take Kyle and me for our annual family vacation to the Gulf of Mexico.
At seven thirty I was ready for Rett’s arrival.
I’d worn a one-shouldered cream dress with floral lace and a ruffled hem. The dress was fitted to show my curves, yet not too tight. To add color, I wore the necklace Ian had delivered nearly a week ago. It appeared to have diamonds and rubies. I emphasizedappearedas I couldn’t imagine the worth if they were genuine.
My shoes were cream with open toes and had a bit higher heel than some of the others I’d worn.
I’d left my hair down, curling the ends so that the large ringlets would cascade down my back. The red lipstick matched the necklace and the eye makeup was a bit more dramatic. Yes, I wanted his attention.
Eight o’clock came.
Eight thirty arrived.
The numbers changed with agonizing slowness, yet they continued to move.
At a quarter to nine, the doors rattled and my breathing stopped.
Yes, I was upset Rett was late, but the overwhelming emotion was relief that he’d arrived.
Until...
A knock on the solid door echoed through the suite.
My heart sank faster than the going down of the Titanic.
Disappointment overtook me as I dropped to the end of the bed. The knock came again.
In a week’s time, Rett had never knocked, not once. He either appeared, as on the first day, or he simply entered. The knock meant one thing: Ian.